Soiree
by rubycaspar
Summary: Georgette Heyer Regency AU. The Dowager Duchess known as the Black Widow is the talk of the ton - rich and mysterious, the only way to meet this elusive lady is through the equally mysterious Mr Barton…


_**This story was written for sienamystic as part of the be_compromised Secret Santa exchange. The prompt was 'Georgette Heyer AU', which was basically the most perfect prompt I could have been given. I had a blast writing this, though it was a bit weird to be setting my very first Avengers fanfic in a historical AU… **_

_**As it is my first foray into this fandom I'd appreciate any feedback – I have a couple of ideas for non-AU stories, and hopefully I'll get a chance to write them soon. **_

_**SOIREE**_

Stark Manor was a sprawling, imposing house, originally built by one of Queen Elizabeth's courtiers and only acquired by the Stark family a decade before. Many had wondered that a family so rich as the Starks would waste their money on a manor in Richmond – too close to London and too small to serve as a decent estate, but too far from London to make a serviceable town residence. Most of the _ton_ had shaken their heads, attributed it to Antony Stark's inexperience and eccentricity, and gone back to quietly sneering at him from a distance.

Mr Philip Coulson knew better. Stark Manor, he knew, was the perfect residence for Lord Stark. Close enough to London for him to enjoy the delights of the city, but far enough removed for him to escape unwanted visitors and, most importantly, for him to work on his inventions in private. Few knew just how 'eccentric' he truly was – and it was best that that remained the case.

He arrived at the manor long after nightfall, but was admitted to the house without even having to knock.

"Good evening, Mr Coulson."

"Good evening, Jarvis," he replied as the butler closed the door behind him. He handed Jarvis his hat and coat. "I believe I am expected?"

"Lady Stark is in the library, sir," said Jarvis.

Coulson wasn't at all surprised to hear he'd be meeting with the lady of the house and not the lord, and headed for the library with just a thankful nod to Jarvis.

Lady Stark rose to greet Coulson as he entered the library. Marrying Miss Virginia Potts was, in Coulson's opinion, the sanest thing Lord Stark had ever done – though he was less sure of _her_ sanity in agreeing to the union.

He kept this thought to himself, and she smiled at him as he bowed over her hand. "Coulson, thank you for coming," she said warmly. "I am so sorry for making you come all this way."

"Not at all," he replied as they both took a seat. "What seems to be the trouble?"

The trouble turned out to be a great deal of money missing from Lord Stark's investments. Lady Stark showed him her records, which were meticulously kept – and slightly different to the accounts submitted by their investors and suppliers.

"You can see that though the total is a large amount, it is made up of small amounts taken from many places," Lady Stark explained. "If I didn't keep my own records, we might never have noticed the discrepancy."

Coulson had no doubt that Lord Stark would never have noticed the missing money, and hoped the man knew how lucky he was to have such a sharp wife.

"You are astute to have noticed – many would not," Coulson told her. "Many have not."

Lady Stark raised an eyebrow. "You've seen this before?"

"Yes," Coulson confirmed. "There have been a number of reported incidents over the past year – but as you say, it would be easy to miss the discrepancy, so who knows how many unreported incidents there have been."

"And you have no idea who is behind it?"

Coulson shook his head. "Unfortunately not," he said. "Our people have been working to track the conspirators for many months now, but there does not seem to be a connection between the targets or their investors."

There was a small pause before Lady Stark spoke again. "We think that we may have found a connection," she said, before handing Coulson a small ledger. He opened it and began to read.

"It was Jarvis that found it," Lady Stark explained. "You know how well connected he is, and how good he is at finding things out." She smiled. "Really, he ought to work for you."

"I have said so to him before," Coulson said with a small smile. He read on for a few moments. "_Ah._"

"Yes."

"I see why you gave this to me."

Lady Stark nodded. "Antony wanted to confront him himself, of course, but… well, it isn't just anybody," she said. "This is the Marquis of Bramley we are talking about and if we are wrong…"

"I don't think you are," Coulson said. "But I understand."

"It needs tact."

Coulson smiled, but did not say what he was thinking. He didn't need to – Lady Stark knew exactly what he thought of her husband's finesse, and she smiled too.

"It isn't really about getting the money back, as such," Lady Stark said. "I just want to make sure that this doesn't happen to anyone else – not if it can be helped."

Coulson nodded and stood up. "Of course, my lady," he said. "We will put our best people on it."

XXX

Charles Claverley, the Marquis of Bramley, was a young man of good fortune, good breeding and, unfortunately, very little sense. This could not be said to be entirely his own fault, as he had been brought up to believe himself the better of all those around him, excepting those of a higher social station… and even then only because of an accident of birth. The idea that he was only the better of those _below_ him by an accident of birth never entered his mind.

Bramley had been away from London for some time, overseeing his family estates in Yorkshire and Derbyshire and dealing with some perplexing financial matters, but four days after he had unknowingly become the topic of conversation at Stark Manor, he walked into Boodle's Club with the air of someone glad to be back. Boodle's wasn't his usual club, but some acquaintances were inside, so it was as good a place as any that night.

He gained admittance to the club with no difficulty and soon found three of his friends in one of the game rooms, playing at whist with a man he did not know. He ran an assessing eye over the good but not excellent cut of the man's jacket, the slapdash tie of his cravat and – worst of all – the appallingly low points of his collar, and judged that the man was respectable, but not one of _his people_. He would know doubt leave soon enough, or be easy to get rid of. Bramley dismissed him from his mind as he approached the table.

"Bramley!" One of his friends exclaimed as he approached. "Glad you found us, old chap. Allow me to introduce Mr Clinton Barton. Barton – meet Bramley."

It was hardly the most elegant of introductions, but Bramley let it go – having heard the man's name, he was far more interested. So _this_ was Barton.

Barton looked up from his cards and gave Bramley a long, hard stare that bordered on the insolent. Then he nodded his head. "My lord," he said. His eyes dropped down to his cards again, and Bramley felt as though he'd been assessed and dismissed in the moment Barton had taken to look at him.

Though at least he had had the sense to call him 'my lord'. Bramley shook off his friend and sat down in his vacated seat, leaving him to find another chair. Bramley didn't care – he was busy studying Barton.

He was older than Bramley, but certainly under forty. His jacket was not of the latest mode, but it fit him well, and showed that he had an athletic figure. Bramley guessed that he probably boxed or fenced. His hair and sideburns were shorter than the fashion and the less said about his collar points the better, but everything he wore was good quality. No doubt _she_ paid him well.

Bramley had read about Barton in the papers and his correspondence, and had been curious about him for some time. No one had heard of him a year ago, but now he was accepted into exclusive clubs and parties as though he'd been one of the _ton_ all his life. And it was all because of who he worked for.

She was known as the Black Widow.

It was a reference, apparently, to some kind of spider found in the New World, known as the 'black widow' because the females ate the males after mating. The name was rather too _evocative_ to be used in polite company, but it spread nonetheless – whispered behind a fan or bawdily laughed at over a glass of brandy.

She _was_ a widow, at least – twice widowed in fact, and both her husbands had been exceptionally wealthy and, by all accounts, exceptionally old. They had been foreigners, one rich Russian and one elderly Duke from Austria or someplace like that, but no one seemed to know exactly where she was from. It was part of her alluring mystery.

There was something fascinating about her, this wealthy widow – a Dowager Duchess with no family ties, no entourage and no connections in the city. Few had seen her, even fewer had met her. She rarely went to parties and when she did they were small affairs, soirees and gatherings with only a dozen or so guests. It was said that she'd charmed the Regent when they'd met but had refused all his subsequent invitations, even to his select parties at Brighton. She had applied for and received vouchers for Almack's, but had famously never used them since arriving in London – something the Patronesses were not inclined to think well of her for (though led certain others to like her a good deal more). It was her very aloofness that made her the talk of the _ton_, and which had led to Barton being embraced to the heart of London society.

Barton worked for the Black Widow, though no one knew in exactly what capacity. He was not a mere servant – he certainly didn't live in her Mayfair mansion like one in service would. He did not seem to be a professional such as a lawyer or doctor. Instead he was considered to be her 'eyes and ears'. She rarely ventured into society, so it was through Barton that she received information about the _ton_.

Most importantly, however, it was only through Barton that one had the chance of meeting her. The Dowager rarely entertained, but every now and then she would hold exclusive parties for around a dozen guests, and a lucky few would have the privilege of meeting her. Meeting the Black Widow was something of a social coup in London society, but to meet her one had to be invited – and the person handing out the invitations was Barton.

Yes, impressing Barton was the only way of impressing the Dowager, and London knew it. Well, Bramley had no intention of playing Barton's game and grovelling for a chance of meeting a lady with a foreign title… though it _would_ be an extraordinary achievement to receive an invitation as soon as he arrived back in London…

Of course, it was no more than he deserved.

Conversation had continued, and Bramley began to pay attention – they were discussing precisely what he'd been thinking about.

"Come now, Barton, you must have something spare!" This was James Kenton – a younger son of a minor lord that Bramley had known since his schooldays. The man was an idiot.

Edward Gregg, the man who had greeted Bramley, turned to him to explain. "The Black –" Barton gave him a sharp look, and Gregg changed tack mid-sentence "the Duchess is having one of her parties tomorrow night."

"But Barton is not being very forthcoming with invitations!" Kenton exclaimed petulantly.

"The invitations are gone," Barton said mildly.

"All of them?"

"All save one."

"Well there you are!" Kenton said. "I am one!" He beamed as though he had made an extremely clever joke.

"I am afraid the invitation is not for you," Barton said.

"Who is it for?"

"I am not sure yet."

The other two laughed as Kenton made offended sounds, but Bramley narrowed his eyes at Barton. The man was an upstart, of neither family nor background, and yet he thought he had a power over gentlemen like Kenton who, though idiotic, was a man of good breeding. Bramley made up his mind there and then that he would get that last invitation for his own.

"What would you say to a little wager, Mr Barton?" Bramley said, his voice dripping with insincere politeness.

Barton looked up at him again, his own eyes narrowed but, Bramley noticed, interested. "What do you have in mind, my lord?"

"You are clearly an excellent card player," said Bramley. It was true that Barton was obviously beating the other three, but what Barton didn't know was that the three men he was playing against were three of the worst card players in London. Bramley smiled, sure he would be able to beat him. "What say we play a hand, and the winner receives the elusive invitation?"

Barton raised an eyebrow. "And what if I win?" He asked. "I already have my own invitation."

Bramley was starting to look forward to putting this man in his place. "Will ten guineas do the trick?"  
Bramley's friends gasped at the sum, but he just held Barton's gaze, staring at him across the table.

"Very well," Barton said eventually. "Cribbage?"

"The table is set for whist," Bramley said, a little thrown by the suggestion.

"Whist is for four," Barton said. "And this wager is between you and I."

Bramley paused for a moment, but nodded. Cribbage was not his forte, but he was still rather good at it. And it did feel right that the game should be between just the two of them.

A board was found, the cards were dealt, and within two minutes Bramley was sure he would win. Cribbage was a gentleman's game, and Barton clearly had little experience with it. Fifteen minutes later this proved the case, and the wager was won.

Barton stood up abruptly. "Very well," he said. "Present your card at nine. Gentlemen – my lord."

Bramley nodded serenely. "Barton."

Barton nodded back and left.

XXX

Bramley toyed with the idea of not going to the party – his friends would surely spread the story of his winning an invitation from Barton, and there was something delicious in the idea of publicly snubbing the elusive Black Widow. But curiosity won out, and at nine the following evening he presented himself at her Mayfair mansion, showed his card to the butler and was shown upstairs by a liveried footman.

The hallway was impressive – marble, cavernous and with notable artwork on the walls. It seemed that reports of the Dowager's wealth had not been exaggerated. Fine tapestries, antiques and modish furnishings bedecked the long hallway Bramley was shown down, and he could find nothing to disapprove of. Finally he heard the murmur of voices and paused outside a doorway as the footman announced him.

"The Marquis of Bramley."

Heads turned as Bramley entered, and he had a moment to recognise a few of them. Unlike the house and its furnishings, he was not impressed with what he saw in the way of guests.

The Earl of Valhalla was standing by one of the sash windows, in conversation with Lord Stark. Valhalla was bad enough, but as he was the son of a Duke Bramley was ready to forgive him his brashness and oafishness, behaviour which reflected poorly on his station. Perhaps in time Valhalla would grow more like his father, the venerable Duke of Asgard.

Yes, Bramley could forgive Valhalla's invitation, but _Stark_? The son of an _inventor_, and little more than that himself. Rich, yes, but quite without proper breeding despite being made a Lord – as evidenced by his recently marrying a young woman _employed in his service_. Bramley scanned the room and soon found Lady Virginia Stark seated on a chaise-lounge, talking to a man he did not recognise: not that he was surprised, given the obviously poor cut and quality of his jacket.

He was clearly beneath Bramley's notice.

No, the Starks were low-born fools. Fools above all, Bramley thought smugly, reflecting on recent events.

Movement to his right drew Bramley's attention, and he had no trouble recognising Captain Steven Rogers as he stepped to the side to let someone pass. Bramley had to stop himself from sneering. War hero he may be, but Rogers was even worse than Stark – worse than Stark's _wife_, even – no title, no upbringing, no parents that anyone had heard of. Why should he merit an invitation to a party as select as this one?

In fact, Bramley was forced to admit to himself that he and the rest of London had been deceived, and that her grace was not possessed of the superb taste that the _ton _claimed. He would extract himself from the party as quickly as was polite, and spend the rest of the evening at his club, his proper club. There, at least, birth counted for something.

But then he saw her. Rogers stepped to the side and she was there, walking towards him with a delighted smile writ across her delicate, exquisite features. She looked so happy to see him that Bramley desperately tried to remember if they'd met before, but surely he would not forget such a woman. How could he?

She was petite, reaching only his shoulder, but not slender and waif-like as such women often are. Her bosom was full and the curve of her hips clearly evident beneath the narrow skirt of the empire line gown she wore. Midnight blue at first sight, Bramley soon saw that the dress was in fact burnished gold silk, overlaid with the blue in gauze, and the candlelight reflected off of the silk, causing the material to shimmer as she walked towards him. Her hair was a deep auburn, the curls arranged artfully on her head, held in place by two golden combs set with sapphires and diamonds, matching those sparkling at her throat. And her skin – it was flawless, pale and unblemished, enhanced by the dark blue of the sapphires sliding against it as she lifted her hand to offer it to him.

Bramley's eyes snapped to her still smiling face, and he took her hand. She wore no gloves, which ordinarily he would have found distasteful, but the jolt he felt as he felt the warmth of her skin against his was not to be regretted. He had no idea who she might be, but felt compelled to bow low over her hand nonetheless.

"Oh, my lord," she said in a quiet, resonating voice that seemed to reach into his very core, "I am so glad to welcome you to my little party."

Bramley froze, still bowed over her hand. This lady – _this lady_ – was the Dowager. The Black Widow. He could scarce believe it. She was so… so _young_. He'd heard she was beautiful, elegant, sophisticated – but not so young. He raised his eyes so he could see her face again, and felt sure that she could be no more than four-and-twenty.

She was still smiling at him.

"The pleasure is mine, your grace," he said, straightening. "I am honoured to have been invited."

The Dowager's smile widened. "I have been hoping to make your acquaintance for some time," she said. Bramley's eyes widened at the unexpected comment, and the Dowager noticed. "You seem surprised – I hear that you had to win your invitation in a game of cribbage."

Bramley's eyes widened still further at the fact that Barton had told her such a thing. He looked over her shoulder and saw Barton was sitting at a table in the far corner of the room, playing cards with two men and a lady that Bramley did not recognise.

The Dowager laughed suddenly – a sound like a pealing of a merry bell, and Bramley looked back in time to see her face lit up with mirth. It made her even more beautiful. "Naughty Barton – when he knew full well that I have wanted to meet you for so long," she said, stepping a little closer to Bramley.

Bramley swallowed and looked back at Barton – the man was now staring across the room at he and the Dowager, and he was unmistakably annoyed. Bramley nodded to him, smiling, and then smiled back down at the Dowager.

"Fortunately for me I am extremely good at cribbage," he said.

The Dowager smiled again, but it was a small, secretive smile. "Fortunate for both of us, I think," she said in a low voice. Bramley's eyes widened again, and he found himself unable to look away from her and that small smile.

She broke the silence after a few moments. "Oh, look at me, what a terrible hostess I am being – monopolising you when you have only just arrived!" She said, her voice back to its usual tone. "Let me introduce you to my other guests."

Bramley blinked, and swallowed again as the Dowager stepped up to him and slid her hand into the crook of his elbow. He was extremely glad he'd decided to attend the party.

"I would be very happy to be monopolised for as long as you wish, your grace," he said, taking the liberty of placing his hand over hers.

The Dowager smiled again, and covered his hand with her other. "I am glad to hear it," she said.

XXX

An hour later, Bramley was sitting next to the Dowager Duchess on a small sofa, a glass of untouched punch in one hand. It was untouched because he'd been unable to look away from her for enough time to try it. She was the most beguiling creature he'd ever met, and Bramley had known his share of the most… _experienced_ ladies in Europe. It was not only her classical beauty, but also the warm tone of her voice, the elegant way she held herself, the natural grace that flowed through her body with every movement.

Bramley was enchanted, and pleased to see that she clearly felt the same way. She hadn't left his side since he had arrived. She had introduced him to her guests – a handful of lower gentry and, of all things, a common doctor, Banner or something like that, had been the only ones present that he did not know – and then they had sat down and been talking alone ever since. Bramley had never talked so freely to anyone in all his life, and certainly not to a woman. She had a way about her that encouraged him to keep talking, telling her of his upbringing, stories of his travels in Europe, anecdotes of the great men of London society that he knew. She laughed so heartily and smiled on him so prettily that Bramley could be in no doubt of her interest. It was no surprise, really – he was a Marquis, one of the most eligible men in London, and if that evening was an indication of the sort of people the Dowager usually encountered, it was only to be expected that she would develop a _tendre_ for him.

It was, no doubt, the fault of Barton – he was clearly incapable of distinguishing between riff raff and people of consequence like Bramley and the Dowager.

It was after about an hour that Lord and Lady Stark took their leave of the party. Bramley was glad he had managed to avoid conversation with either of them – not only were they both far inferior to him, but after the events of the last few weeks he would rather not have any dealings with them whatsoever. There was no chance they suspected – Stark had probably not even noticed, he was such a fool – but even so, it paid to be cautious.

The Dowager, of course, had to see them out, and Bramley heard her sigh a little as she stood up to do so. He stood as well, hiding his smile at her obvious reluctance to leave him.

"Excuse me a moment, my lord," she said with an apologetic look.

Bramley bowed. "Of course, your grace." She walked away, and he was left alone for the first time since arriving at the party. He sipped his punch and looked around – everyone was engaged in conversation, and even if they were not there wasn't anyone beside the Dowager that he had any inclination to talk to. No doubt she would be back in a moment, he didn't want to start talking to anyone else.

Bramley's eyes fell on Barton's table. Valhalla, Captain Rogers and Dr Banner had joined the man, but only Dr Banner was playing – he and Barton were playing cribbage. Bramley smirked and sauntered over. From what the Dowager had told him, Barton had deliberately tried to withhold his invitation to tonight's party from him, presumably a petulant reaction to her obvious preference for him. Bramley could understand why the man would feel jealous, but honestly – had Barton really expected a woman like the Dowager to look twice at a man like _him_?

Clearly, the man needed to be put in his place.

Barton didn't look up as Bramley approached the table, but he had a feeling that he knew he was there. Barton was pegging out, and a quick look at the board showed that he was winning by quite some margin.

"Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, fifteen eight, six for the pairs, and one for his knob makes fifteen," Barton said. It took him three points from the required one-hundred-and-fifty-one to win.

Dr Banner made an exasperated sound and flung down his own cards. "Two for a pair," he said with a chuckle. "I concede. Really, I don't know why I bothered playing in the first place."

Captain Rogers turned to Bramley. "Do you play cribbage, my lord?" He asked.

Bramley looked past the Captain to Barton, who was gathering up the deck of cards. "I dabble," he said nonchalantly.

"Perhaps _you_ can beat Mr Barton," the doctor said, vacating his chair. "You are welcome to my seat, my lord, though I should warn you it is not a lucky one. Barton has just won nine games of cribbage in a row."

Bramley raised an eyebrow. "Is that so?"

Barton finally looked up at Bramley, and nodded to the empty chair. "Well, my lord?" He said. "Would you do me the honour of a rematch?"

"Rematch?" Valhalla said with a laugh. "No, Bramley, do not give him the satisfaction of beating you again!"

Bramley smirked. "Actually, _I_ was the victorious party at our last encounter," he told the viscount.

There was a general disbelieving murmur from the group, and Valhalla laughed again. "Surely not! Is this true, Barton?"

"Certainly," Barton said smoothly, not looking the least bit perturbed. He was shuffling the deck of cards without looking at them – his eyes were fixed on Bramley. "So you can understand why I am eager for a rematch."

Bramley opened his mouth to tell Barton he would be glad to give him his rematch, but something in the man's eyes made him pause. There was an eagerness in them that was somehow more than simple competitiveness. Bramley glanced down at Barton's hands and saw that he was not shuffling the cards in the usual manner – he was splicing and merging the deck in ways Bramley had not seen done outside of the European gaming houses. And all without looking at what he was doing.

It occurred to Bramley that if he played Barton now, he would lose. And it also occurred to him that he had only won the night before because Barton had wanted him to. No sooner had he reached this conclusion than Barton smiled a slow, insolent smile.

Bramley's hand tightened around his glass. How dare he? How dare that man sit there and think that he had got the better of the Marquis of Bramley? How dare he play games with him? Clearly the rogue had been instructed by the Dowager to invite him to the party, but had decided to 'have some fun' with him first.

"There you are!"

It was the Dowager. She appeared next to Bramley with a rustle of silk and placed her hand on his sleeve. With an effort, Bramley pushed aside his anger towards Barton, and turned to smile down at her instead.

She smiled back at him. "Are you joining the game, my lord?"

Bramley looked back at Barton, who was still smiling, and then shook his head. He didn't need to prove himself to a man like Barton. "No, your grace," he said. "Why would a man play cards when he could be talking to you?"

The Dowager laughed, and slid her hand round his arm. "Come then," she said, pulling him away from the card table. "Excuse us, gentlemen, my lord."

Bramley favoured the men – Barton especially – with a smug smile, and then followed the Dowager back to the sofa they'd been sitting on before.

"I should apologise, my lord," she said quietly once they were seated. "I am sure this is not the kind of company you were expecting when you came here tonight."

Bramley's eyebrows shot up. It was the truth, but he'd hardly expected the Dowager to comment on it. She didn't seem to notice his surprise, for she was too busy looking around the room to make sure no one else was listening. Then she leant in close.

"It is such a wonderful change to have someone of your… standing… at one of my little parties," she said, her voice just above a whisper. She sighed. "Barton does his best, of course, but he does not belong to quite the right… circles."

Bramley nodded understandingly. It was as he thought – she was forced to associate with these people through Barton's incompetence.

"Of course," he said quietly. "It must be very difficult for you to behave so graciously to people of such inferior quality."

The Dowager nodded. "You have no idea," she said. She sighed. "The Starks, for instance. They seem to be well thought of in London, but in all honesty I cannot think why."

Bramley pursed his lips. "It is true they have a certain standing amongst many of the _ton_, but amongst those few of true breeding, to whom birth matters more than accumulated wealth, they are considered quite lacking in standards," he told her.

The Dowager's beautiful eyes widened. "Is that so?" She asked. "I must confess, it cheers me to hear you say it. I had thought that it was only I who felt that way. Is it true that Lady Stark was a _servant_?"

"As good as," Bramley said, sneering. "I am not well acquainted with them, as you can imagine, but I believe she was some sort of administrative assistant in the Stark family business."

"I see," said the Dowager, her lips twisting in distaste. "Industry. A distasteful line of business, and one that will only mean the elevation of the middle classes to heights they were not bred to."

It was as though she could read his thoughts. Bramley raised his glass to her. "I am in complete agreement, your grace," he said.

She smiled at him. "I thought so," she said. "People like the Starks need to learn their place. Perhaps one day we will find a way."

Bramley thought of the letter he carried in his pocket and for a moment contemplated taking it out to show the Dowager. She would be impressed, he was sure, but he couldn't possibly… not while there were so many others around them, anyway.

He cleared his throat. "I have something you might wish to see," he said cautiously, "though a more private setting would be necessary."

The Dowager raised an eyebrow at his words. "Is that so?"

Bramley suddenly realised how his words could be misconstrued, and felt himself flush red with embarrassment. "I – that is, it is a letter," he said, somewhat flustered. "One that I think you will find extremely interesting."

The Dowager tilted her head to one side, looking interested. "How very mysterious. You have this letter with you?"

"I do."

"Well then, one can only hope that my guests will remember forgotten engagements and leave us in peace before long."

Bramley smiled and nodded. He was still slightly embarrassed by his gaff, but it did not seem to have harmed the Dowager's opinion of him. In fact, now that he thought on it, her reaction had not been scandalised or embarrassed – she had been intrigued, if anything. He wondered whether he had finally met his match. It seemed apparent that she had met hers.

To Bramley's delight, the Dowager's wish seemed to come true – within a few minutes her other guests began to leave. At first he could only wonder why anyone would want to leave her presence, but then it occurred to him that had he been some other guest and seen how much she favoured himself, he would probably have taken his leave early too. He was, however, mildly surprised to see that Barton was the first to go – clearly he had underestimated the man's stubbornness. Perhaps he was just about smart enough to know when he was beaten.

Barton approached them to take his leave. "Your grace, thank you for a delightful evening," he said.

The Dowager smiled up at him and offered him her hand. Bramley did not get up – Barton was not worth such courtesy.

"Barton, thank you very much," the Dowager said as he bowed over her hand. "I shall see you soon, I am sure."

Barton looked up from where he was still bowed over her hand, but did not say anything. For a moment he looked at her with an intensity that was completely inappropriate – Bramley looked at the Dowager but she did not say anything. She was, no doubt, appalled by his behaviour, especially as he still held her hand.

Bramley was about to say something when Barton dropped her hand and stood up straight. "I look forward to it, your grace," he said. He turned to Bramley and gave him a stiff, far too shallow bow. "My lord."

Bramley merely nodded his head. "Barton."

Barton span on his heel and left without another word.

"I do not understand why you associate with that man, your grace," Bramley said, unable to stop himself once he was gone.

The Dowager gave a graceful shrug. "Surely you would allow that a lady needs the support of a man?"

Bramley hesitated for only a moment. "There are others who would be far more suitable," he said.

The Dowager just smiled, but he knew that she understood his meaning. He smiled back.

The other guests were all gone within the space of another half hour. Bramley stood to the side of the room as the Dowager's guests took their leave one by one, and hoped that no one would notice him lingering. Personally he could not care less what such people thought of him, but it would not do to embroil the Dowager in an appearance of impropriety.

After the last guest had departed, the Dowager closed the door and turned to him with something of a teasing smile on her face. "I hope this is private enough for you, my lord," she said.

Bramley grinned – she was a saucy one. He would not presume to press his advantage that evening of course, not with a lady of such quality, but he would certainly be seeing her again very soon. He would make sure of it.

He put his empty glass down on the table beside him and walked over to meet her in the middle of the empty room. "As I said, I have a letter here that might be of some interest to you," he said.

She smiled. "This is all very intriguing, my lord," she said. "What kind of letter?"

"It concerns our friends the Starks," Bramley said, reaching inside his jacket for the papers – he had not let them out of his sight since receiving them yesterday.

The Dowager frowned slightly. "Indeed?"

"Yes. It is not something I would show to just anyone, but I feel we are…"

"Kindred spirits?"

Bramley swallowed. "Yes," he managed. He stared at her in silence for a moment, his purpose lost at the bewitching picture she made, the candlelight dancing over her pale skin as she peered up at him, almost shyly, from under her full eyelashes.

He cleared his throat. "I… met someone, a man who shares our opinion of people like the Starks. Someone who has found a way to keep such people in their proper place," he said. "I helped him teach _Lord_ Stark a lesson."

"What kind of lesson?" The Dowager asked breathlessly. "What did you do?"

"I helped him arrange for some money to be transferred from some of Stark's investors and investments," he told her. "It is not much, not to a man like Stark, but it was only the beginning – we are arranging for an even greater transferral soon, one that will cause Stark Industries some serious financial and legal problems."

The Dowager was wide-eyed. "It's not possible," she said after a moment. "I do not believe you."

Bramley just smiled and held out the letter to her. "I thought you might say that," he said. "Here is my proof."

The Dowager gave him a disbelieving look before taking the letter from him and taking a few steps away to read it. Her eyes widened further as she perused the letter, and Bramley smiled in triumph as he thought over what she was reading – details of how he was to be paid for his part in the conspiracy, and plans for the next steps in the scheme.

After a few moments the Dowager shook her head. "My word."

Bramley's smile widened. "And the best part is, Stark is too much a fool to even notice until it is too late," he said.

"How idiotic."

"Quite."

"Oh, I do not mean Lord Stark," the Dowager said, refolding the letter and turning to face him. Her smile was gone and – somehow – her eyes seemed… harder. "I mean you."

Bramley frowned in confusion, but before she continued before he could say anything. She held up the letter. "You have just handed me proof of your involvement in a major embezzlement scheme," she said. "There is more evidence in this letter than a magistrate will know what to do with."

"I – what?" Magistrates? Why was she speaking of magistrates?

The Dowager pursed her lips. "The fact that you were not the instigator of the scheme will be taken into account, I'm sure."

Bramley was starting to feel panicked. "I –"

"Come now, you needn't worry that anyone will believe that you were behind it – you hardly have the wits to think of something like this yourself." The Dowager raised an eyebrow at him, but unlike earlier it didn't seem flirtatious or intriguing – she was looking at him as though he were something to be pitied. Something beneath her.

Bramley shook his head – he had no idea how this had happened so quickly. Where had the coquettish Dowager of a few moments ago gone? Why was she talking like this?

What was Rosen going to say?

The thought of Rosen and his associates made Bramley go pale with fear. "I – you cannot prove anything," he said quickly. It wasn't true, of course – she was right, he had just handed her everything she needed to prove his involvement in the scheme.

She certainly didn't look impressed with his statement in any case.

Bramley felt trapped. It wasn't right. This couldn't be – he was the _Marquis of Bramley_, he should not be made to feel like a common criminal! Especially when anyone of any breeding could see that what he had done was for the good of society, for the good of decent people everywhere.

And anyway, letters could be forged, couldn't they? Just because this woman had the letter from Rosen in her hand didn't mean that Bramley would be convicted. She was a nobody – a mysterious lady of no background or proper breeding, no better than Stark! And she had been playing with him all evening, tricking him into divulging his secrets. He had let himself be taken in by her pretty face and pretty manners, allowed himself to forget who he was and that she was a nobody by comparison. He did not know who she really was, but he was not going to be outplayed by such an one.

"Who would believe you?" He exclaimed. "I am a respected peer, a man of noble blood – you are just some foreign whore!"

To his surprise, the Dowager just smiled. But this smile was very different from the others she'd given him that night. This smile made him shiver with a sudden fear.

Bramley darted forward and snatched the letter from the Dowager's hands. He turned and ran towards the fireplace – he would burn the letter. If it was destroyed, there would be no evidence. He would lose some of his money, but it was better that than have his involvement revealed to the authorities – or have Rosen discover he'd told the Dowager of the scheme.

Bramley felt something hit the back of his knees, and went sprawling to the floor. The letter fell out of his hand as he tried to break his fall, and he landed in a painful heap, tangled up with one of the small side tables that were dotted around the room. At first he thought he had tripped over the table, but realised with a start as he watched the Dowager calmly appear from behind him and pick up the letter from the carpet that there had been no table where he'd fallen – it had been thrown at him.

And there was no one else in the room. It had to have been _her_.

He didn't know who she really was, but he did know he needed to get out of there, even if it was without his letter.

Bramley pulled himself to his feet, hissing at the pain in his legs, and limped towards the door. He glanced back at the Dowager as he went to find that she was watching him, his letter still in her hand. She shook her head slightly but did not move to follow him.

Bramley didn't wait to see what she would do – he pulled open the door and limped as quickly as he could down the long corridor. He was about halfway down the corridor when he heard the sound of soft footsteps and rustling silk behind him – soft, measured footsteps, unhurried and even. Bramley dared not look back – he needed to get to the front door and out of the house before she caught up to him, and if she kept to her slow pace he would make it.

Perhaps she wanted him to escape. Perhaps she hadn't been entirely untruthful in her admiration for him and that's why she wasn't hurrying after him. Whatever the reason for it, he was just grateful for her slow gait and tried to pick up some speed.

He reached the stairs leading down to the foyer, and began hobbling down them as quickly as he could.

"Please Lord Bramley," she called down the hallway behind him. "It will be easier for everybody if you stopped running."

"You will not keep me here!" He shouted, not slowing his pace.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and limped across the marble floor towards the front door. No one was in sight, and a single oil lamp cast its light over the latch of the door. He was almost there, just a few feet away.

There was a strange _whooshing_ sound, and Bramley felt something sail past his right ear. A moment later, an arrow embedded itself in the door in front of him with a thud.

Bramley froze, swaying slightly at the sudden stop. He stared at the arrow for a moment, before looking fearfully over his shoulder. The Dowager had reached the top of the staircase and was standing still, watching him thoughtfully, but there was nothing in her hands, no bow or quiver. No one else was in sight. He peered into the darkness of the landing next to the Dowager, but if someone else was there they were hidden in the shadows.

The Dowager did not seem surprised at the sight of the arrow. She walked down a couple of steps before pausing again. "Lord Bramley, this is pointless."

Bramley shook his head. This was not happening – it couldn't be. Not to him. He turned back to the door, and saw that the arrow was stuck above the latch, so that it would be impossible to lift the latch up to open the door without removing it. He started to reach for the arrow, but he had barely moved an inch before another arrow thudded into the door, this time just above where his hand had been reaching for its fellow.

He snatched his hand back with a curse and span round again.

The Dowager was on the same step as before. "I suggest you cooperate, _my lord_," she said.

Bramley sagged in defeat. There was movement to his right, and two footmen appeared as if from nowhere – Bramley just stared at the Dowager as they flanked him and took hold of his arms in a vice-like grip.

"Who are you?" He demanded.

The Dowager just smiled. "Take him away."

XXX

Natasha Romanova, the Black Widow, known to London society as the Dowager Duchess of Leoben, paused for a moment outside the saloon door. She checked that no one else was in earshot, and then tapped once, twice, and then three more time in rapid succession on the door before opening it and entering.

Clinton Barton was sitting at a table across the room. He'd removed his jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves to accommodate his black leather shooting gloves, but still wore his cravat and dark blue waistcoat. The effect was a picture of elegant danger, and Natasha pursed her lips to keep from smiling at the sight. She knew that he would not welcome being called 'elegant'.

He looked up as she entered, fixing her with an intense, searching gaze as he had earlier, when he'd heeded her signal to clear the room. But she knew this look had a different purpose. Before, he'd been trying to discern her plans for Bramley – now he was just looking at her because he could.

She looked back. "Coulson will not be happy about the door," she said after a moment.

Clinton quirked an eyebrow. "We have our man – Coulson will be happy enough," he said dismissively. He looked down at the table and Natasha saw that his ebony bow was laid in front of him – he was in the process of unstringing it and packing it in its case. "Besides," he added, "Bramley's a fool and won't think twice before turning in whoever is really behind this."

Natasha made sure the door was closed behind her and then walked over to the table he sat at. "It was unnecessary," she said mildly.

Clinton looked back up at her and narrowed his eyes. "You could have caught up to him and you didn't – you wanted me to shoot," he said.

Natasha smiled slightly at his entirely correct assumption. "I knew that you would want to, and you know how I hate to be disobliging," she said, placing a hand on the table next to his bow.

He smiled back at her. "I _did_ find the look on his face rather satisfying."

Natasha tilted her head to the side. "I have a feeling you dislike young Lord Bramley," she said, as though there were anyone in the world who truly _did_ like the odious little man.

Clinton's smile disappeared and he went back to packing his bow. "He was born to a life of privilege and opportunity, and he's thrown it away through greed and arrogance," he said. He was glaring down at his weapon, a sure sign that he was very annoyed.

"True," Natasha agreed. She leant her hip against the table. "Any other reason?"

Clinton shrugged. "He's terrible at cribbage," he offered. "I almost beat him last night, and I was playing to lose."

Natasha's smile widened. "And…?"

Clinton closed the lid of his bow case with a snap, and sat glaring at it in silence for a moment before raising his eyes to meet hers. "And I didn't like the way he looked at you," he said, finally admitting the truth Natasha had known all along.

"That was all part of the plan," she said, walking round the table to stand beside him. She knew that he knew as much, knew that no matter how much he disliked seeing the situations she put herself in he was a professional and wouldn't allow his feelings to ruin their plans. But she also knew that he found it difficult to be so detached at times. She was better at hiding it, but she felt the same way.

She smiled softly. "_I_ didn't like the way he looked at _you_," she told him.

Clinton's eyes widened a little. "I do not care what they think of _me_," he said, no hint of a lie in his face or voice.

Natasha reached out and ran the backs of her fingers over his brow and up through his hair, finally coming to rest her palm on his shoulder. "It won't be long now," she said. "Soon we will be done here, and we can end this ridiculous charade."

Clinton smiled. "Well, being the confidant of a mysterious duchess has had its advantages," he said, his eyes twinkling.

Natasha smiled back. "Such as the parties, card games and gifts from the social climbers?" She guessed.

"I have won quite a lot of money," Clinton said. His smile faded slightly, and he reached up to clasp her hand on his shoulder. "At least we've been together."

"Yes." Natasha reached out her other hand to cup his cheek. "And I believe Coulson when he says we will stay that way."

Clinton paused before answering. "I believe that he will try," he said simply, before letting go of her hand and turning back to the table, starting to undo his shooting gloves.

Natasha bit back a sigh. She could understand his scepticism – he had been parted from people he loved too many times to be sure of anything anymore, but _she_ was sure of one thing: she was not going to be parted from him, no matter what she had to do.

"It is nearly done," she repeated. "Bramley will talk, and we will move on to the next case – and we will not have to be the duchess and her confidant."

Clinton undid the last strap on his gloves and placed them on the table next to his bow case. Then he stood up, turning to face her and taking her right hand in his. "What will we be?" He asked quietly. He didn't smile, but the light of humour was back in his eyes.

"Just us," Natasha said after a moment.

Clinton did smile at that, and raised her hand to his lips to place a lingering kiss on her knuckles. "I look forward to it, my lady," he said.

Natasha turned their hands over and raised his hand to her own lips. "As do I, my lord," she said.

Clinton shook his head. "I am no lord," he said.

Natasha smirked. "_I_ am no lady."

His smile faded and he turned her hand in his so that he could kiss her palm instead. Natasha's breath caught in her throat as his lips touched the sensitive skin there, and then again when he looked up at with eyes the colour of a stormy sea.

"You are _my_ lady."

He was the only one who could make such a claim. The only one for whom it had ever been true, or ever would be.

Natasha reached up and cupped his cheek again. "And you are _my_ lord."

_THE END_


End file.
